Everyone has their own style
by Daria234
Summary: Peter notices that the men he sleeps with all have very distinct styles in bed. Humor/crackfic, ending in total unapologetic schmoop. Various Slash pairings - don't read if you don't like!


Peter knew that bedroom styles could be unpredictable.

For example, everyone who saw Mohinder and Peter strolling hand in hand, getting a roast chicken and fresh pastries from the corner shop -- they all assumed they were the sweetest couple that ever sweetly sweeted. But after a leisurely romantic dinner, the whole apartment shook with the force of two men with super-strength, doing their best to challenge each other.

With Bennet it was surprisingly playful. Bennet didn't trust a lot of people, but when he did, the youthful side of him came out. He would pick Peter up from behind and spin him around. He would wrestle gently with Peter, and even let Peter pin him. And he would get out of the pin not with force but by tickling Peter under his left armpit.

With Matt Parkman, it was like taking a final exam back in school while simultaneously watching the best porn ever. Meaning, it was a hot, sweaty, sticky triumph of concentration. Matt could read his mind, and Peter could read Matt's, and together they re-defined the term 'good technique.'

Peter never remembered exactly what it was like with The Haitian. But he knew that he always felt good afterward. Really good, satiated-for-days good, makes-parts-of-you-stir-just-thinking-about-him-and-you-don't-know-why good.

Peter with Sylar was a different story. It was always cautious at first, Sylar stepping out of the shadows, Peter having to take a minute to gauge whether Sylar was there for blood or something else. And the Sylar would look shy and lost, like a wounded animal, and then, again, like a wounded beast, would start to glare and look angry, fear choking into rage. But Peter would act swiftly, give his crooked smile and say, "I'm glad you're here, Sylar."

"Think you can kill me?" Sylar spat.

"That's not what you're here for. So you think you can do this without touching me? Bet you can't." Peter knew Sylar's competitive streak was a good bet.

And Sylar would stride toward him, aggression in his eyes. But he would always stop just short of Peter's lips. For some reason, despite all his crimes, Sylar didn't want to be guilty of forcing Peter into something.

So Peter would move forward, bridge the last inch between him. He would press his tongue into Sylar's mouth and wait for Sylar to make a sound, that involuntary moan that always came, that made Sylar blush as though he was ashamed to feel desire.

And every time, Peter would be surprised at how gentle Sylar was, how passive and yielding and vulnerable. And Peter would move his hands slowly up and down Sylar's torso, caressing the skin under his shirt, and kiss Sylar's jawline and down to his neck.

"I'm going to take one of your powers now, Sylar," he would say, "But you're gonna be glad I have it. Okay?"

Peter was always careful not to turn it into a battle.

Sylar would hesitate but he would give in eventually. He knew well that Peter could have taken one during the kiss, without asking.

Peter had done it enough that he could search Sylar's mind, flipping through powers like an old Rolodex, finding one that Sylar wouldn't expect. And then Sylar would feel an ice-cube down his back, or a telekinetic caress, or some other source of fun. He never took healing, though, knowing he wouldn't need it with Sylar.

Sylar always treated him like he was fragile.

But Peter didn't resent it. He knew it was better than the alternative.

They always had sex where Sylar found him, some deserted alley, under the bushes, someplace dirty and rough. But Sylar himself was the opposite, holding them both above the ground so that Peter wouldn't get dirty, making his every movement slow, waiting for a smile or pleasured groan from Peter, some sign of assent, before continuing.

In the morning, Peter would wake up tucked into his own bed at home, not recalling how he got there. He would always find a gift in his apartment, a heart-shaped ice sculpture in his freezer, a box of candy, a vaseful of irises or tulips. Oddly romantic gifts.

But never permanent ones. Always gifts that got eaten or melted or wilted.

So Peter decided to give a gift back. He started walking around with a small ruby in his pocket, wrapped in a white cloth, Peter's scraggly handwriting Sharpied onto it, saying, "S - this is my gift to you. Because it has lasted for thousands of years, and will last for thousands more. Love, P."

He wasn't sure when Sylar would randomly show up again. But when he did, Peter wanted to be ready.


End file.
